[Lightscreen]
[By the time the Song Dynasty rolled around, Li Jing had basically become untouchable.
His military writings were included among the Seven Military Classics. His name was honored in the Martial Temple alongside the greatest military minds in Chinese history. Emperors praised him. Scholars studied him. Generals quoted him. For centuries, he never lacked worshippers, incense, or official recognition.
The Song Dynasty had a strict policy of civilian control over the military. It didn't matter if a scholar had never held a sword in his life. If you wanted to succeed in the examination system, you still had to read the recognized military classics.
And that meant reading Li Jing.
Generation after generation of scholars encountered his name. Whether they liked military affairs or not, they couldn't avoid him.
But here's a funny modern paradox.
If you ask people about famous figures from Sui-Tang folklore, many will immediately recognize Qin Qiong and Yuchi Gong. After all, those two are still everywhere.
Every Lunar New Year, countless families paste their images on front doors as protective door gods. Even people who know very little history can recognize their faces.
But Li Jing? Despite being one of the greatest commanders in Chinese history, his presence in popular folklore feels surprisingly small.
Compared to Qin Qiong and Yuchi Gong, he almost disappears from the conversation.
The answer is simple. Li Jing's historical prestige had grown way too high to fit into a cheap paperback novel.
He wasn't a door guard. He wasn't a sidekick. He was a transcendent deity, the kind of figure who didn't belong in a tavern brawl or a street-level adventure.
The guy deleted kingdoms for a living. Put him in a story, and what's left for the hero to do? The villain would be dead before the first chapter ended.
So the novelists did the only thing they could. They left him out.
Too powerful for fiction. Too legendary for fun.
Poor Li Jing. Too successful to be a folk hero.]
Inside Ganlu Hall, Qin Qiong looked completely bewildered.
"Jingde, did you hear that?" he muttered, blinking slowly. "We ended up as door guards."
Yuchi Jingde snorted. "Yeah. You and me both, Shubao."
Qin Qiong stared at the screen. Pasting protective spirits on doorways was an ancient tradition. From what he understood of current Tang customs, commoners typically used paintings of Guan Yu and Zhang Fei, or old mythological deities.
But the idea that his own face was currently scaring away evil spirits from peasant huts?
"If this was happening while we were still alive, I'm sure you'd beat them, Jingde," Qin Qiong laughed.
"Of course I would. I'd beat them and sleep in their house. Let's see if they'd still dare to put our faces on their front door after that."
Qin Qiong could practically picture it.
A family wakes up one morning. The man who was supposed to guard their door and keep them safe has shown up in person. And now he's eating all their food and sleeping for free in their house.
The more he thought about it, the funnier it became.
His laughter faded.
"But look at Yaoshi, Shubao. We're dukes too. We fought too. So how come we end up as door guards, but Yaoshi becomes a heavenly god?" Yuchi Jingde grumbled, failing to hide the envy in his voice.
He crossed his massive arms.
"Look at him, Shubao. Heavenly Commander. Leading heaven's armies. Meanwhile, we get wooden planks."
Qin Qiong studied the two colorful, exaggerated door god portraits flashing on the screen. Then he leaned close to his old friend.
"Jingde," he whispered smoothly, "think about it this way. The duty of a door god ranges from protecting a single terrified family in the dead of night to guarding the very gates of the empire itself."
He paused.
"People will always remember us. Is that not a glorious thing?"
Yuchi Jingde uncrossed his arms. He thought about it. Then he nodded, his chest puffing out with renewed pride.
"...Fair point, Shubao. Fair point."
He paused again, frowning.
"But tell me something."
"What?"
"Every Lunar New Year, families are going to paste our faces on their front doors. Stare at us every time they come home. Expect us to fight off ghosts and evil spirits."
He shuddered slightly.
"Isn't that... a bit much? I mean, I'm flattered. But also slightly uncomfortable. What if they put us on a door that faces a latrine?"
Qin Qiong burst out laughing.
"Would you rather be completely forgotten, Jingde?"
"...No."
"Then accept the door duty. It's better than being a footnote in some dusty history book that nobody reads."
Yuchi Jingde grunted.
"When you put it that way... fine. But I'm not working weekends."
"You're a door god. You don't get weekends."
"Then I'm negotiating for better hours. Time and a half for night shifts."
"You're arguing with fate now?"
"Someone has to."
[Lightscreen]
[We all know the literary evolution of China. Tang poetry. Song lyrics. Yuan opera. And finally, Ming Dynasty chapter novels.
Unlike the deeply personal expression found in Tang poetry and Song lyrics, Ming novels were a ruthless, profit-driven commercial industry. And wherever serious money is involved, originality tends to become optional.
Take Journey to the West, for example.
After that mythological fantasy became a massive blockbuster, it was an absolute phenomenon. Readers loved it. Publishers loved it. Booksellers loved it. Everyone involved was making money.
So naturally, the industry's first response wasn't, "Let's create something completely new."
It was, "Can we do that again?"
And thus the market was flooded with spiritual cousins, unofficial continuations, and outright imitators.
Journey to the East? You got it.
Journey to the South? Right here.
Journey to the North? Of course.
If readers enjoyed Journey to the West, why wouldn't they enjoy Journey to the Every Other Direction?
At a certain point, it started to feel less like a literary movement and more like a franchise expansion plan. You know, like when a movie is so successful that suddenly every studio is making the same movie with slightly different characters.
The famous Investiture of the Gods was basically just another trendy spin-off. It wasn't trying to tell a story. It was competing for the same audience that had already fallen in love with immortals, demons, magical artifacts, and divine warfare.
Same target market. Same tropes. Different title.
The exact same thing happened after Water Margin.
Readers discovered they liked heroic warriors, military campaigns, and larger-than-life family legends. The publishing industry? They took very detailed notes.
Soon, stories about the Yang family, the Xue family, the Yue family, and countless others started popping up. If readers wanted families fighting wars, publishers were going to give them families fighting wars. Grandparents, parents, children, cousins, long-lost uncles. Everyone got a sword.
But if we're talking about influence, there was still one king sitting above everyone else.
Romance of the Three Kingdoms.
That book didn't just become popular. It became a blueprint. A template. The holy grail of historical fiction.
Writers looked at it and came to a simple conclusion. If one chaotic era filled with warlords, betrayals, and military geniuses could become a bestseller, then why stop at the Three Kingdoms? Why limit yourself to just one period of chaos when Chinese history was full of them?
So they didn't stop.
From the Eastern Zhou period all the way to the founding of the Song Dynasty, historical novels began appearing everywhere. If a dynasty existed, chances were good that somebody had already turned it into a dramatic historical epic.
The logic was simple. Why create something new when you can just add different names to a formula that already worked?
This reveals the core philosophy behind late Ming literature. Find a trend. Copy it relentlessly. Milk it dry. Then move on to the next trend.
Which brings us to the two major novels covering this specific era: Romance of the Sui and Tang and Tales of the Tang. If a modern reviewer had to summarize these books, they would only need two sentences.
Which finally brings us to today's topic.
The two major fictionalized accounts of the Sui-Tang transition: Romance of the Sui and Tang and Tales of the Tang.
Now, if a modern reviewer had to summarize both works in only a few sentences, it would probably sound something like this.
The good news? They borrowed successful elements from other books.
The bad news? They threw literally everything into a pop-culture blender.
The brotherhood, rivalries, and colorful heroes? Those feel straight out of Water Margin.
The gods, demons, immortals, and supernatural battles? Thank Journey to the West.
The grand historical framework, political maneuvering, and rise-and-fall of kingdoms? That's pure Romance of the Three Kingdoms.
The authors looked at the three biggest hits of their age, tossed everything into the same pot, stirred vigorously, and somehow ended up creating an entirely new genre.
Whether that sounds brilliant or completely insane depends on the reader.
Either way, it worked.]
Li Shimin found himself becoming increasingly distracted.
Originally, he had been listening with genuine interest to the discussion about literature. It was fascinating to learn how later generations viewed books and storytelling.
Unfortunately, the more the narrator talked about Journey to the West, the less attention he paid to everything else.
Immortals, he thought. Demons. Heavenly courts. Magical treasures. A stone monkey that causes chaos across the Three Realms.
He leaned forward.
That sounds amazing.
Up until now, the Heavenly Screen had only shown occasional excerpts from Records of Searching for Spirits. Those stories were enjoyable enough, but frustratingly short. Just as he got invested in one tale, it would abruptly end and move on to something completely unrelated.
Journey to the West, however, sounded different. A proper novel. A long one. The kind of book you could curl up with for days and forget about state affairs.
Li Shimin suddenly realized he wanted a copy.
Very badly.
He glanced around the room. No one else seemed to be having this crisis. They were all still listening politely to the narrator.
How are they not distracted? he wondered. The narrator just described a monkey fighting heaven. How is everyone still paying attention to literary criticism?
Then another realization hit him.
The book wouldn't be written for several hundred years.
His expression darkened.
What kind of behavior is this? he thought, staring up at the screen with growing suspicion. You spend ten minutes telling me about an amazing book. You describe all the cool parts. You get me excited. And then you casually mention it won't exist for another six centuries?
Damn. I want to kick this future descendant. He's so cruel.
[Lightscreen]
[Let's start with the heroes. Most historical novels give you a cast of talented generals, clever strategists, and the occasional martial arts prodigy. Normal stuff.
Romance of the Sui and Tang looked at that concept and immediately decided it wasn't nearly ambitious enough.
The story introduces the famous ranking of the Eighteen Great Heroes of Sui and Tang. Sounds normal so far, right?
It isn't.
The number one hero, Li Yuanba, isn't just exceptionally strong. He's the reincarnation of the Golden-Winged Peng, one of the most powerful beings in Buddhist mythology. Not a mortal. A mythical bird. In human form. Walking around, hitting people with hammers.
The third-ranked hero, Pei Yuanqing? Reincarnation of Nezha. The child-god with the cosmic accessories.
Qin Qiong? Mortal vessel of the Star of Destruction. Fancy way of saying he was born under a very aggressive constellation.
Yuchi Gong? Incarnation of the Black Killing Star. Which sounds intimidating until you realize it just means he was destined to be really, really good at violence.
At this point, you might reasonably assume the authors had already used up their entire mythology budget.
You would be wrong.
Li Shimin himself is portrayed as the earthly manifestation of the Polaris Emperor Star. The center of the universe. Literally.
Meanwhile, Wei Zheng and Xu Maogong aren't merely talented officials. They're the Left and Right Prime Ministers of Heaven. Temporarily working a mortal assignment. Like a celestial internship.
And just in case anyone was still under the impression that this was supposed to be a grounded historical novel, the story makes sure to remove all remaining doubt.
What began as a struggle between warlords during the collapse of the Sui Dynasty gradually evolved into a conflict involving reincarnated gods, celestial officials, divine stars, supernatural destinies, and enough heavenly personnel to populate an entire bureaucracy.
To put this into modern terms, imagine opening a book expecting a historical drama and discovering that half the cast secretly belongs to a cosmic superhero crossover event. You came for politics and betrayals. You got immortals and magical birds.
Somewhere along the way, a gritty war of unification transformed into Avengers: Infinity War with Chinese deities.
And the strangest part? Readers absolutely loved it.]
Li Shimin's eyes immediately lit up.
A novel. A famous novel. And more importantly, a novel in which he was one of the main characters.
His interest soared on the spot.
"I wonder how they described me," he mused.
"Was my armor impressive? Did they give my horse a grand title? Did I make a dramatic entrance?"
He paused.
"Did I get a cool nickname? Every good hero has a cool nickname."
The more he thought about it, the more curious he became. After all, this was a story written centuries after his lifetime. It was essentially future generations discussing him. Glorifying him. Maybe exaggerating him.
Who wouldn't be interested?
He looked around the room. No one else seemed to be having this particular crisis.
They don't understand, he thought. They're not the main character.
Across the hall, several ministers exchanged glances.
They knew that expression.
His Majesty was enjoying himself far too much.
If a Ming publisher happened to appear at this very moment with a complete copy of the novel, they believed, the Emperor would buy the entire printing run. Every single copy. No questions asked.
And then he would probably ask for a sequel.
Meanwhile, the imperial brain trust was trying to decode the absurd kill counts.
"If a scout reported a vanguard general charging deep into enemy lines and personally decapitating a hundred men," Fang Xuanling said slowly, "we would shower the man with gold and praise him as a god of war."
He pointed at the screen.
"But a single teenager killing over a million men in one afternoon?"
He shook his head.
"The sheer audacity of the lie is almost impressive."
"But who on earth is Li Yuanba?" Fang Xuanling rubbed his temples, desperately searching his memory. He came up completely blank.
"I believe it's a corrupted reference to His Majesty's late younger brother, the Prince of Wei, Li Xuanba," Du Ruhui deduced calmly.
He laid out his logic. "The broadcast noted that future generations had to avoid writing the character 'Xuan' because of the naming taboo associated with Emperor Xuanzong. 'Xuanba' would have been altered to 'Yuanba' by a lazy publisher."
He smiled, a spark of dark humor in his eyes.
"Furthermore, look at the narrative logic. If a man possesses enough martial power to slaughter a million troops, how could the authors possibly write him out of the story? The only solution is an early, tragic death. Just like the real Prince of Wei."
He paused.
"Otherwise, the boy would have conquered the entire globe before his twentieth birthday. And then there would be no story left to tell."
The military officers were far more offended by the sheer lack of physical realism than by any mythological inaccuracies.
Su Dingfang scowled at the screen. "What kind of madman dual-wields massive blunt hammers while riding a horse? More importantly, what kind of supernatural beast could carry a man swinging eight hundred pounds of solid iron without breaking its own spine?"
That immediately won the approval of several veteran generals.
"Forget whether a person can swing weapons that heavy," Qin Qiong added. "If those hammers really weigh what the story claims, then the horse deserves more recognition than the rider."
"At the very least, it deserves a place among the Eighteen Heroes," Yuchi Jingde said. "That horse is carrying more weight than most soldiers do in a full suit of armor."
A few officers laughed.
The more they thought about it, the less sense the whole thing made.
"When cavalry charges, you use a lance," Qin Qiong explained. "Once the formation breaks apart, you switch to a saber, a mace, or whatever sidearm you prefer. Nobody rides into a crowded battlefield swinging giant hammers in every direction."
Yuchi Jingde agreed. "If I saw someone doing that, Jingde, I'd be more worried about my own troops than the enemy. You'd be taking out your own cavalry faster than theirs."
"Exactly, Shubao."
"The enemy might survive."
"Your cavalry certainly wouldn't."
The discussion quickly drifted into a detailed analysis of all the ways Li Yuanba's horse should have collapsed long before reaching the battlefield.
Legs broken. Spine shattered. Lungs crushed.
The list went on.
---
Fang Xuanling and Du Ruhui ignored the physics debate and solved another mystery. They deduced that the child-god 'Pei Yuanqing', known for his invincible strength, was obviously a fictionalized version of the real-life historical powerhouse Pei Xingyan.
This realization immediately sparked a wave of ruthless teasing directed at Li Jing.
"Wait, Jingde," Yuchi Jingde boomed, doing the mental math. "If this Nezha character is supposed to be the Heavenly King's third son, does that mean General Li Jing is legally Pei Xingyan's father in this universe?"
He let out a bark of laughter.
"Pei Xingyan was murdered by the warlord Wang Shichong. You rode with His Majesty to crush Wang Shichong at Luoyang. Does that count as a father taking righteous revenge for his mythological son, Jingde?"
Su Lie happily joined the barrage against his mentor.
"General Yaoshi," Su Lie grinned, saluting sharply. "I had no idea you had the Old Mother of Mount Li on speed dial. I am going to buy a statue of the Pagoda King on my way home and start burning incense immediately!"
The accusations of divine nepotism grew so ridiculous that Li Jing's normally stoic face flushed bright red. He found himself desperately arguing with the younger generals to clear his name of magical collusion.
"I am not anyone's father in this universe, Dingfang!" Li Jing protested. "I have never met the Old Mother of Mount Li! I don't even know her phone number!"
"She's a deity, General Yaoshi. She doesn't have a phone."
"Then I definitely don't know how to contact her, Dingfang!"
But there was one man in the pavilion who looked ready to burst into tears.
Li Ji looked like a man who had just discovered an unfortunate detail in his own obituary.
The moment the screen mentioned the Right Prime Minister of Heaven descending into the mortal world under the name Xu Maogong, his expression had grown increasingly strange. After all, he knew perfectly well that Xu had been his original surname. He also knew that "Maogong" happened to be his courtesy name.
The connection was impossible to miss.
At first, he had assumed the change was related to some future naming taboo. Now he wished it had been. A naming taboo was harmless. Being turned into a wandering Daoist sorcerer was not.
Li Ji had spent his entire life studying military affairs, governing territory, and commanding armies. He did not appreciate learning that future storytellers had apparently looked at his achievements and concluded: You know what this man needs? Magic.
The more he thought about it, the worse he felt.
Li Shimin noticed immediately.
"Maogong," he said, trying not to laugh, "you're overthinking it."
Li Ji looked unconvinced.
"Am I, Your Majesty?"
"Yes."
Li Shimin gestured toward the screen.
"Didn't the narrator just explain where this came from? The authors were copying Romance of the Three Kingdoms."
Li Ji still didn't look reassured.
Li Shimin continued.
"And who was the most famous strategist in Romance of the Three Kingdoms?"
Li Ji paused.
"...Zhuge Liang, Your Majesty."
"Exactly. The one everyone admires. The legendary genius."
Li Ji thought about that.
Then he thought about it some more.
Suddenly, being a Daoist wizard didn't seem nearly as offensive. After all, Zhuge Liang spent half the novel summoning winds, borrowing arrows with straw boats, and generally terrifying his enemies through methods nobody could fully explain. Future generations clearly loved that sort of thing.
"So what you're saying, Your Majesty," Li Ji said carefully, "is that they were comparing me to Zhuge Liang."
"That is exactly what I'm saying, Maogong."
Li Ji's mood improved at once.
In fact, it improved so quickly that several nearby officials rolled their eyes. A moment ago, he had looked ready to argue with the authors of the novel. Now he looked deeply satisfied.
"Well," Li Ji said modestly, "I suppose future generations are entitled to their interpretations."
Yuchi Jingde nearly choked. A moment ago you hated it, he thought.
Li Ji ignored him.
"If they insist on portraying me as the Tang Dynasty's equivalent of Zhuge Liang, I can hardly stop them."
The smile on his face grew wider.
"As for the wizard part..." He waved a hand. "Minor details."
Having successfully managed his staff, Li Shimin finally allowed himself to react to the climax of the broadcast. He leaned back and burst into uncontrollable laughter.
"Emperor Yang reincarnated as Yang Yuhuan?" he gasped, slapping his knee. "'The Romantic History of Emperor Yang'?"
He could barely breathe.
"These future scholars are absolute lunatics! Their minds operate on a completely different plane of existence!"
He wiped a tear from his eye.
"God, I wish I could drag Yang Guang out of his grave right now. Just to make him read that plotline."
He paused, still chuckling.
"Imagine his face. He thought he was being remembered as a tragic tyrant. Instead, future generations turned him into a lovesick consort."
---
Far away in Chengdu, Zhuge Liang watched the screen fade away and found himself thinking about an entirely different matter.
"All this time, the historians have been approaching this from the wrong direction," he remarked, slowly turning his feather fan. "Their records are accurate, but accuracy alone isn't enough. Most common people will never read the official histories. Even many local clerks struggle to finish them. So the deeds of great men gradually leave the written record and enter the realm of storytelling."
Liu Bei immediately understood what he meant.
The Heavenly Screen had demonstrated the process countless times already. A capable general became a legendary warrior. A legendary warrior became the reincarnation of a star. After a few more centuries, nobody remembered the real person anymore. Only the myth remained.
"Yet people clearly enjoy these stories," Liu Bei observed. "When I walk through Chengdu, I hear discussions about heroes, ghosts, immortals, and strange happenings far more often than discussions about actual history. They're eager to listen. They just don't enjoy being lectured."
"Exactly. Real history is too boring," Zhuge Liang nodded.
"If a man refuses to read a hundred thousand words of court history but eagerly devours a novel three times as long, then the problem isn't his willingness to learn. It's just a different way of presenting the same information."
Pang Tong laughed.
"The scholars would faint if they heard you say that, Kongming."
"Let reality hit them hard. They'd recover eventually."
"If you published their work instead of criticizing it, you'd be their friend again, Kongming."
That earned a smile from several people around the room.
Pang Tong leaned forward and continued more seriously.
"Still, Kongming's idea has merit. If young people spend their evenings reading about how Wei Qing trained his army, managed supplies, and defeated the Xiongnu through discipline and preparation, that's probably healthier than listening to some wandering storyteller explain which shrine grants the most effective blessings."
"At the very least," Zhang Song added, "it would be cheaper."
The room laughed.
Only then did Zhang Song produce a ledger from his sleeve.
"Fortunately, the timing is favorable. More families are asking for schools than at any point in recent memory. They're not requesting advanced academies. They just want their children to learn enough characters to read contracts, letters, and books. If the government wants to expand the local literacy program, we can finally afford it."
That immediately reminded Zhuge Liang of the Character Schools proposal that had been sitting untouched for years. Back then, every available resource had been directed toward defense, reconstruction, and agriculture.
Now the situation was very different.
Liu Bei considered the matter for a moment before nodding.
"Then let's proceed. Open the schools, teach more people to read, and give them novels, stories, or whatever worthwhile things to read afterward. If future generations can preserve history through novels and folklore, there's no reason we can't do the same."
His gaze swept across the room.
"The Han wasn't built by immortals, mountain spirits, or heavenly stars. It was built by people. If the next generation remembers that lesson, the effort will be worth it."